


Parallels

by smolonde



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Death and Resurrection, F/M, Psychoanalysis, emotional tension, pale ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4513143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolonde/pseuds/smolonde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk tries to teach Rose how to strife. However, it ends up being more than either of them bargained for, and soon enough, their emotional battle comes to a head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallels

“You’re doing it wrong.” You cringe as Rose spreads her feet further into the gravel.

“Dirk, allow me to explain why I’m correct. With feet spread wider, one is able to keep a better balance on uneven terrain. It’s simple physics.” Her black lipsticked mouth curves up at the end, showing off that ego that is so familiar. You can see a glint in her eyes, an intelligence that could rival yours, if only she were to try.

“Yes, but your body is completely straight. Sparring isn’t just raising your fists and hitting at the air. It’s a delicate and precise art. You’re familiar with the concept of a weighted lead, correct?”

“No, I’m not. Would you like to educate me, Mr. Strider, or are you too impatient to do so?”

You flinch; she’s hit a nerve there. The last time you attempted to teach her how to spar, you ended up just walking off the roof and locking yourself in your room just because she kept her arms too close to her body.

You know that she’s really only ever fought with knitting needles, which is impressive in itself. However, she hasn’t learned how to properly fight, only how to slice with sharp objects. You’re not bad in that department either, seeing as you trained with katanas for twelve years, but before you did, you trained with your fists, and that made you a stronger swordsman. Hopefully before you’re through with her, she’ll be a fairly competent fist fighter.

“A weighted lead is when you put all your weight on your back leg, then raise your hands up in front of your face.” You help move her hands into a position where she’s more defended, and shift her feet into the gravel, this time moving her right leg backwards. Then, you assume an elongated front stance, leaning forward so you’re face to face with her.

“Are you ready?”

“Of course. Don’t hesitate to hurt me, I can definitely tolerate it.”

You smirk, knowing that she’s going to try and break your rules. It’s a shame; you’re several steps ahead of her, but you know that she thinks the exact same thing.

You throw a punch, which she blocks easily. She dances just out of your reach, but you’re prepared. You close the distance with an axe kick. It hits her square in the stomach, but she absorbs the impact by falling to one knee like a knight. She spits a strand of hair out of her mouth, rising to her feet, and charges you with her arms behind her. You have to stop yourself from laughing right there; Rose Lalonde, not thinking properly for once. She’s left everything exposed; her chest and stomach are unblocked, and you wait patiently for her to get closer. You see the soft, exposed skin of her stomach, and you take the opportunity to lunge towards her, your shoulders thrust forwards…

Only to skid out of control on the gravel as Rose uses your shoulders as a springboard, leaping up the length of your torso and vaulting over your head. She pushes your shoulder blades forwards, throwing you off balance. Your face hits the ground, small rocks digging into your skin. You barely have time to roll over before she pins your shoulder to the ground with her foot.

“Well, Dirk, it seems we have come to an impasse. You believe that you’re above me, and I know that I’m above you. Literally.” The toe of her foot digs into your left pec, and you flinch unwillingly.

“Laugh it up while you can, Lalonde. You’re going to be training until you strain a hamstring.” you spit, the warning on your lips sounding more like a whine.

Suddenly, she stops smirking, a real moment of concern crossing her face. Then, as soon she seems to realize that an expression besides a smirk has crossed her face, she shuts it down. The familiar smirk comes back, and she steps off our chest, pulling you to your feet.

“You really are an egomaniac, aren’t you?” Her violet eyes are narrowed, almost angry-looking.

“If I’m an egomaniac, I can’t begin to think of what that makes you.” Your animosity is thinly veiled, yet somehow, you let her keep talking.

“Oh, Dirk. You’re prideful to the point that you made another version of yourself because no one could keep up with you.” She smirks, leaning up, focusing on you so hard that her gaze almost sears your shades off.

“You don’t have much experience with failure, you bend all the rules, you live like you’re immortal…. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you were trying to make up for an amazing lack of self-esteem, and while you’re at it, thinly disguising self-hatred over a layer of cockiness. You analyze people because you’re so vastly lonely that you need to feel as if you understand, as if people are robots that you can rewire. You’re dishonest with people you love and incapable of talking about your feelings, and I could write a thesis on your control-freak nature.”

She looks so pleased with herself, so fucking _smug_ , that you can’t help yourself. You lash out and attempt to hit her, but she dodges your punches and starts jabbing at you, still talking.

“You’re paranoid and unpredictable in your intentions, yet somehow you think you can improve everyone by pulling their strings. Your controlling nature will bring you down, and your cockiness is a disadvantage every time you attempt to form a bond. You attempt to control your inhibitions by sticking to some kind of moral code, yet every incarnation of you seems to turn into something that you can’t control. Possibly,” she strikes your neck with a flat hand, cutting off your wind for a moment “because you lack any empathy.”

You inhale, then twist her into a headlock. “Oh, Miss Lalonde, how wrong you are. If anyone is the monster, you are. Your grimdark self is not a possessed vessel; it’s you, only less inhibited. Your inhibitions are just as malevolent as mine, if not more so. Your little bargain with your omniscient game master wasn’t exactly a success because of how your ego and cockiness took over. Even your fighting style suggests a bravado, possibly meaning that you hate yourself more than you want to realize. Your stance is too wide,” here you kick her feet out from under her, still holding her head “your theory is off, and you fight confidently, much too confidently for your abilities, possibly-” you plant your feet on the ground “To make up for the fear you feel inside.”

She goes limp in your arm, her weight pulling you down, and she takes the momentary lapse in your strength to wriggle out of the headlock, hooking her feet behind your knees and bringing you down. In a moment, your katanas are out of your sylladex, and you flash-step behind her, pointing your blade into her back and feeling a rush as you rip straight through her torso.

What you don’t expect is for Rose to fall on the ground, and a spread of red on the gravel. For a minute, your brain refuses to comprehend what’s in front of you, but your body can feel a change. The sun is getting hotter as the moments pass, blazing into your skin. The wind that was a pleasant breeze moments ago roars through your ears, seemingly having picked up five knots. And for some reason that you’re not sure you understand, you fall to your knees and start hyperventilating. Rose is dead. Rose’s blood is on your hands, literally; you have turned her over onto her stomach and you are trying in vain to quell the bleeding. Then you see that the sword went straight through her left breast, piercing her heart. A thin trickle of blood wanders down her bottom lip, mingling with the lipstick and staining her pale face. You’re numb, but your body is still panicking; your heart is racing, you’re lightheaded, and there are black spots dancing in your peripheral vision.

You’re about to black out, but you open your eyes and realize that a storm of energy is beginning to engulf Rose’s body. A black glow explodes, burning your eyes, and when your vision clears, Rose is standing in front of you.

“Dirk.” Her voice is weak, almost broken. She walks towards you and falls to her knees as well, her forehead touching yours.

“Rose, I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.” Your heart is pounding, but your breathing is starting to even out.

“I shouldn’t have goaded you and insulted you. I provoked the fight; this is entirely my fault.”

A blurry haze descends on you, and you start to yell. “It was your fucking fault? You _died_ , Rose, and I was the one who was holding the blade.” You point at your katana, still dripping red onto the pavement. “This is your blood, Rose. I killed you, so don’t you fucking try to blame this on yourself.”

Rose looks at you evenly. “I goaded you. I told you about all your flaws, and I didn’t realize that I was describing myself.”

“Rose, I know you. You were describing yourself, and I’m almost an exact emotional copy of you. The things that I said; that was about me as well.”

“So essentially we used some kind of psychological double Mobius reach-around on each other to project our self-hatred.” She nods. “Yes, this absolutely sounds like a Rose Lalonde thing to do.”

“By which you mean that it’s a Dirk Strider thing to do as well.” A half-smile flits across your face, and you stand up, giving her your hand. The two of you walk over to the roof’s edge, dangling your feet over the brick wall.

“So essentially we’re both egotistical hypocrites. Well, it’s not like either of us weren’t aware of that beforehand.” You shrug, hoping that she won’t think less of you because of your freakout.

“Not to mention ridiculously ignorant and passionate to the point where we don’t know when to stop.” Rose flips her bangs out of her eyes and pats your hand, smiling gently.

And as the wind blows, and your heart slows to an almost normal rate, Rose and you lean closer together, her alive, pulsing heartbeat echoing through an intact ribcage, her breath, warm and wet, on your neck as she rests her head on your shoulder, and her soft sigh, drifting away on the wind, carried into fracturing, endless space.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for my friend Layne, and I couldn't have done it without a discussion I had a while back with @t0talcha0s. This was an experience to write, and I never thought I'd be any good at writing these two, but it turned out much better than I thought it would.


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